My Life as a Smashed Burrito with Extra Hot Sauce

by Bill Myers

  “Oh, can we fix those pies up nice and pretty?” the Babes asked.

  “How?” the cook said.

  “With whipped cream,” the Babes offered.

  “Good idea,” the cook replied. “Why don’t you girls take care of that. You’ll find the whipped cream in the refrigerator.”

  But the girls didn’t need the whipped cream in the refrigerator. They had some of their own. And it wasn’t exactly whipped cream. It was more like shaving cream . . . shaving cream purchased at the convenience store down the road.

  Later at dinner, Gary and his Goons thought they were having a lucky day. For some reason a lot more campers than normal seemed to be passing their table. This, of course, meant that the Goons had a lot more desserts than normal. Not only that, but for some reason the cook’s helpers had been incredibly generous with the topping. For some reason each pie was piled high with thick, rich, creamy topping.

  The Goons didn’t suspect a thing. Oh sure, the pies tasted a little weird. But, hey, they came from the Toxic Waste Site. What could you expect? It wasn’t until Gary and the boys were on their fourth or fifth piece that they began to suspect something was up.

  Gary was the first to notice. It seemed no one else in the cafeteria was eating their dessert. It also seemed there were a lot of sidelong glances and snickerings going on.

  But Gary’s suspicions weren’t confirmed until Goon One started hiccupping. Then Goon Two started. Pretty soon Gary also joined the chorus.

  It wasn’t the hiccups that were the problem. It was the bubbles that followed each hiccup— bubbles that floated mysteriously out of their mouths. It was also the foam that started running out of the corners of those mouths.

  The campers could no longer help themselves. Suddenly, everyone broke out laughing. Suddenly, Gary turned beet red. And suddenly, he shouted my name at the top of his lungs.

  “McDOOGLE!!!”

  But he didn’t stick around to chat. He and his Goons were too busy racing out of the cafeteria. They were too busy looking for the nearest water fountain so they could rinse and spit, rinse and spit. Something they’d probably be doing the rest of the night.

  Now that they were out of the room all eyes turned to me. And once again the applause started. I’ve got to admit it felt pretty neat. No, actually it felt terrific . . . wonderful. Everything except the part where I caught Dale looking at me. I can’t explain it exactly. It wasn’t like he was mad or anything. It was more like he was just disappointed. Real disappointed.

  I swallowed hard and tried to smile. If he was disappointed over this, just wait till he saw what was next. Jimmy Jack’s plans had only begun. The little knot in my stomach returned. Only now it wasn’t so little. Now it seemed to be taking up a whole lot more space down there.

  Chapter 5

  Oops

  When we got back to our cabin after dinner, the place was trashed. No surprise there. Gary and his buddies had obviously swung by to say a little “thank-you.”

  That made the score one to one. One set of mouths filled with shaving cream, one trashed cabin. Of course, I hoped that would be the end. But I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  As soon as it got dark, we began:

  JIMMY JACK’S SUPER PLAN TO GET

  THE GOONS IN THE MORNING.

  That night each group followed their instructions to the letter:

  —Opera and I dug a deep hole in the path that led to the woods.

  —Wall Street used her phone to call information. She got the number of the General Store in town. But that was only the beginning. Tomorrow morning she’d make an even more important call.

  —The Eggheads had three assignments:

  • Group 1 quietly collected all the garbage (especially the slimy, smelly stuff from the kitchen).

  • Group 2 rigged up a long plank at the edge of our hole.

  • Group 3 tied a rope around the top of a young pine tree and pulled it all the way down to the ground.

  —The Babes’ job was simple: Charm all the rich kids with feather pillows to donate them to the cause.

  —And the Jocks? Well, the Jocks didn’t have to wait for morning to see their plan work . . .

  First they connected all the garden hoses from the Maintenance Shack. Next, they attached one end to the outside faucet, ran the other end over to Gary’s cabin, and quietly slipped it through the big crack under the door. Then they put tape all along the crack. Finally, they turned on the water.

  Gary was the first to wake up. He’d been dreaming about a beautiful stream with beautiful running water. For a second after he woke, he thought he still heard that running water. Lying on his stomach, he frowned. How could it be? I’m inside the cabin. There’s no running water here.

  Obviously, he was still dreaming. He had to be. How else could he see a shoe floating past his nose?

  A shoe?

  Followed by a suitcase.

  A SUITCASE?

  And then the other shoe.

  “A FLOOD!” Gary shouted as he bolted up in bed. “WE’RE IN A FLOOD!”

  Without stopping to think (or even wake up), the other two Goons leaped from their bunks and hit the flooded floor. Splashing and slipping, they fell face first into the icy water. This was followed by more splashing, slipping, and falling as they kept screaming, “A flood! A flood! A flood!”

  By now the whole camp stood outside their cabin busting a gut with laughter as the Goons kept banging on their door screaming, “Let us out, a flood, a flood, a flood!”

  Finally, the door flew open, and the water swooshed out of the cabin along with the three of them, coughing and cussing. It was truly a sight to behold.

  “McDOOGLE!” Gary screamed as he staggered to his feet dripping wet and gasping for air. “I’LL GET YOU FOR THIS!” he shouted, searching the crowd. “I’LL GET YOU!”

  But McDoogle was nowhere to be found. I’d already made a beeline back to my cabin where I’d be safe and sound. Or so I thought. . . .

  The best I figure, it was about five the next morning when I woke up. There was a tickling feeling on my face. Even though I was half-asleep I knew it was just a joke. Opera or one of the guys was tickling me with a feather or something. It was an old trick to make me think something was crawling on me.

  “Come on, guys,” I mumbled.

  But the tickling continued. Now I felt it over my arms and legs, too. Opera probably had the whole cabin helping in the joke.

  “Give it up, Opera. Go back to bed.”

  But he didn’t answer.

  “Opera?”

  Finally, I heard him mumble and mutter from his bunk above me. If you asked me, it was a pretty lousy imitation of someone pretending to be asleep.

  “Opera, you’re not fooling anyone.”

  The tickling grew worse. Finally, I pried my eyes open. “Okay, guys, the joke’s ov—”

  But there were no guys. There was no Opera. There was nobody. Just a zillion little black ants crawling all over me!

  “AHHHHHH!” I screamed as I leaped out of my bed and began dancing around trying to slap them off.

  “OOOOOOO! . . .” Opera cried as he tumbled down from his bed and began his own version of the dance.

  Soon everyone in the cabin was jumping out of bed, shouting and dancing and slapping. “AHHHH, OOOOOO, OWWWWW, EEEEEE . . .”

  The entire cabin had been crisscrossed with streams of honey. The sticky goo was everywhere. On the floor, on our beds, and all over our bodies. And wherever there was honey, there were ants . . . lots and lots of ants.

  “AHHHH, OOOOOO, OWWWW, EEEEEE . . .”

  “The showers!” I yelled. “Hit the showers!”

  When we threw open our cabin door, you couldn’t miss the thick trail of ants that swarmed underneath it. The thick trail of ants that followed a thick trail of honey. Honey that someone had laid from the anthills in the woods all the way to our cabin.

  We finally arrived at the showers. Nice work, Gary, I thought as I stripped down and
stepped into the icy cold water. That makes the score two to two. Hope you’re ready for the tie breaker. ’Cause it’s coming up, and it’s coming up real soon.

  8:57 A.M. and counting . . .

  Everything was set. Everyone was ready. The ant attack was history. It was nothing compared to our plans for the greatest humiliation of all time.

  8:58 A.M. and counting . . .

  —The hole was dug and filled with the slimiest of garbage.

  —Wall Street had phoned the General Store and convinced them to make an emergency delivery of chocolate syrup.

  —The Babes had ripped the pillows and carefully placed them on the bent pine tree.

  —Everyone was hiding along the path— everyone but me. I was the bait.

  8:59 A.M. and counting . . .

  We all knew that Gary and his Goons snuck into the woods for a smoke after breakfast. We all knew they had to come down this path to be at the softball field for Dale’s 9:00 A.M. talk. We had everything calculated and planned to the exact minute.

  So now I stood on the path, waiting. I wasn’t thrilled about being the bait, but I was the logical choice. After all, I was the hero. I gave a nervous look at the hole in front of me. It was covered with a bed sheet and a thin layer of leaves to disguise it and make it look like the rest of the path.

  9:00 A.M.!

  Our digital watch/alarms went off like a flock of chirping birds.

  And then, right on time . . . “Hey, Weasel!”

  It was Gary!

  He threw a sneer at his partners. They picked up their pace toward me. They couldn’t believe their luck. There I was, their worst enemy, alone and defenseless. Or so they thought.

  “Don’t move,” he growled. “I want to talk to you.”

  I swallowed hard and glanced at the hidden hole between us. “Sure,” I squeaked.

  I looked back at Gary and the Goons. Ten more steps and they’d be in the hole, swimming in the slimy garbage. But that was only the beginning. Yes sir, it was going to be wonderful.

  Then something happened. Something we’d never planned. Something our worst imaginings never imagined.

  “Hey, Wally?”

  It was Dale! He was coming around the bend behind me!

  “There you are. Listen, we’ve got to talk about last night.”

  Oh, please, God, anything but this!

  I snapped my head back to Gary. Six more steps. Six more steps to go and he’d crash into the pit . . . right in front of Dale! I had to act fast. Quickly, I raced around the covered hole to Gary’s side. “Hold it!” I shouted.

  “Oh, Gary,” Dale grinned, “you’re here too, good.”

  Gary suddenly looked disappointed. He obviously figured Dale was coming to my rescue again. But not this time. This time no one could rescue me. Not when Dale was walking directly toward us and the pit!

  “Dale, don’t—!” I shouted and started toward him. But I didn’t get far. Ol’ Gorilla Boy grabbed me by the back of the shirt where Dale couldn’t see.

  “You’re not getting away this time,” he muttered.

  “But you don’t under—”

  “No way.”

  “Hey look, guys,” Dale said, coming closer and closer to the pit. “It’s time you knock this stuff off.”

  “Look out,” I tried to say, but Gary had my shirt pulled so tight that the words stuck in my throat.

  “What do you mean?” Gary asked innocently.

  “You know what I mean,” Dale answered.

  My eyes were as big as saucers. Forget saucers, how ’bout satellite dishes. Four more steps. Four more steps and Dale was a goner. I looked desperately toward my partners hiding in the bushes. They were nowhere to be seen.

  “I’m talking about all these stunts you’ve been pulling,” Dale said as he continued to approach. Three more steps . . . two more steps . . . one more step and . . .

  I couldn’t watch. I closed my eyes. But nothing happened.

  Nothing at all.

  I took a peek. Miraculously, Dale had come to a stop. He had reached the edge of the hole but went no further! I couldn’t believe it! What luck!

  “Stunts?” Gary asked, still playing it all innocent. “We’re not pulling any stunts, are we Wease—er, Wally?” He let go of my shirt just long enough so I could answer.

  “Stunts?” I coughed.

  Dale looked me straight in the eyes. But I couldn’t look back. I was too busy watching his feet. I was too busy watching them teeter on the edge of the pit. Just one inch forward and everything would give way. Just one inch forward and my career as a kid would be over.

  “I don’t mind some good-natured fun,” Dale continued. He shoved his hands into his pockets and began rocking back and forth like he always did when he lectured. And with each rock he seemed to tip a little closer to the edge. “But there’s nothing fun about what you guys are pulling. Not only is it mean, but it’s downright dangerous. Hasn’t anything I’ve said about wisdom gotten through to you guys?”

  “YES!” I cried in a panic. “EVERYTHING! EVERYTHING!”

  Dale looked at me, puzzled.

  So did Gary.

  “He gets kind of emotional,” Gary offered.

  After a second, Dale continued. “Look, all I’m suggesting is that . . .” And then it happened. He rocked forward just a little too far and suddenly dropped out of sight—right into the chest-deep pit of slimy garbage.

  It was like a nightmare watching him wallow in it—slipping, sliding, falling, finally regaining his balance, and then beginning the routine all over again.

  But that was only for starters. Pretty soon he spotted the board we had hung out over the hole.

  “NO!” I cried out. “Not the board!” But no one heard.

  I watched in horror as Dale grabbed hold of the board for help. But it was another one of our traps. For as the board tipped toward him, so did a huge drum of chocolate syrup at the other end. A huge drum of chocolate syrup that tipped over and spilled out all of its contents.

  WHOOSH . . . GLUG-GLUG-GLUG . . .

  The chocolate syrup washed over Dale like a flood. Suddenly, he no longer looked like a counselor. Suddenly, he looked very much like a giant, chocolate-covered peanut.

  He came up out of the flood coughing and sputtering. Unfortunately, it wasn’t over yet . . . not quite.

  When the drum emptied, it triggered the rope that tied down the nearby pine tree. The pine tree snapped up, sending the contents of eight feather pillows high into the air . . . directly over the pit.

  As the feathers gently floated down into the hole, they began to stick all over Dale’s gooey body. No longer did our counselor look like a giant, chocolate-covered peanut. Now he looked like a giant, chocolate-covered chicken.

  Gary looked at me. I looked at Gary.

  “Oops” was all I could think of to say.

  Chapter 6

  Uh-Oh

  Dale’s 9:00 A.M. talk on wisdom didn’t exactly start at 9:00 A.M. He had a little cleaning up to do. Actually, he had a lot of cleaning up to do. There’s something about the way dried chocolate syrup and chicken feathers stick in the hair that makes them a little tricky to wash out.

  We all sat on the bleachers, silently waiting— like prisoners for execution. Even Jimmy Jack wasn’t saying much—an all-time first for him.

  I glanced over at Gary. Our eyes met. He slowly shook his head in amazement. I wanted to explain. I wanted to tell him that it really wasn’t my fault . . . that it was all Jimmy Jack’s idea . . . that all the other kids in camp helped. But it wouldn’t have made any difference.

  There was no telling when Dale would show up, but none of us complained about sitting around. We would have sat there all day if we had to. So to pass away the time, I reached down to Ol’ Betsy, popped open her lid, and snapped her on.

  Maybe a little Mutant Man would help . . .

  As you may recall, our incredibly handsome hero is orbiting the planet Jupiter. It’s a beautiful view up there. Not a
cloud in the sky. Come to think of it, there isn’t a sky. Come to think about it, there isn’t even any air. And since Mutant Man has this thing about breathing, he figures it’s best to be moving along...fast!

  But how?

  Suddenly, he spots a stray meteor blazing past. What luck! Normally, superheros don’t hitchhike. I mean, these days there’s no telling what type of weirdos might be hanging around the block——or the outer fringes of the galaxy for that matter.

  But Mutant Man has no choice. Dr. Ghastly is still back on earth sucking up wisdom. Who knows what humongous havoc he’s havocking while our hero’s hidden away. And let’s not forget that Brady Bunch rerun. If the mighty Mutant doesn’t hurry back, he’ll miss the entire show!

  Pressing the button on his Muton-Belt, the left hand of our gorgeous good guy suddenly turns into a giant catcher’s mitt.

  “Okay, Buddy Boy,” he shouts in his best Major League catcher’s voice. “Burn her right in here, attaboy, what say, what say, come on, burn it in, burn it in.”

  And “burn in” is exactly what the meteor does.

  K-SWOOSH-SIZZLE-SIZZLE-SIZZLE.

  Immediately, Mutant’s mitt is on fire. Talk about too hot to handle. Fortunately, our handy hunk carries a fire extinguisher in his back pocket for just such occasions.

  Soon the fire is out as the meteor hurtles our hero toward the earth at a zillion-point-three miles per hour.

  Next he presses the radar button on his belt, which not only spots Dr. Ghastly’s helicopter, but also heats up last night’s leftovers for a little between-adventures snack.

  Finally, he makes his move. “Thanks for the lift!” he shouts as he lets go of the fiery meteor and falls toward earth. Normally, such a fantastic free fall would frighten even our fearless and faithful friend (say that five times fast). But as an owner of several skateboards, Mutant is a pro at falling.

  At last Dr. Ghastly comes into view. His Wisdom Sucker Upper is still doing some serious sucking. But...OH NO! COULD IT BE? Our hero is falling too fast. According to his rough-but-always-brilliant calculations, he’ll be missing the Gorilla by 17 yards, 2 feet, and 21.2 inches (give or take a mile). Great Scott! What can he do?